Cherry on Top
by snarkypants
Summary: Spock wants a favor from Christine. What could it be? Will she agree?
1. Chapter 1

Cherry on Top by snarkypants

"How can I help you, Mr. Spock?" she asked.

He seemed even more reticent than usual and he wouldn't meet her eyes. "It is a personal matter," he said. "Where might we speak privately?"

She tried to rein in her sudden burst of excitement. Spock had a way of appearing to be interested in her just before he pulled the rug out, and she had been burnt several times. "There's no one in the intensive care room," she said.

He turned and went into that room, leaving her to follow him. Nurse Lawton gave her a quizzical look, and Christine just shrugged.

Once the door had closed behind them, she turned to Spock. "What is it, Commander?"

"It is difficult to say," Spock began. His color was high.

"Your scans appear perfectly normal," she said, holding up the scanner for him to see.

He waved away the scanner. "It is not a medical matter; it is, however, biological."

"Biological..." Christine squinted at him. "How can it be biological if it's not medical?"

He made an impatient sort of noise. "I am… I have not…"

She had the feeling that he wanted her to figure it out so he wouldn't have to say it; this might have worked if she had the faintest idea what he was talking about.

"I have never engaged in sexual intercourse."

She nodded, giving herself something to do. "I see. And you're telling me this because…"

"I would appreciate your assistance in remedying this lack of experience."

Flames. Her face was consumed in flames. "Er… why? Why now? Why me?"

He cleared his throat. "I wish to understand my colleagues' preoccupation with sex; it is a powerful motivator." He himself seemed preoccupied with a stray thread at the hem of his sleeve.

"Uh-huh. And me?"

"You do not wish to? You have said that you love me; I thought—"

"You thought that I'd leap at the opportunity," she said in a neutral tone. "Spock, I was celibate for six years. Then I fell in love with a member of a species believed to have sex once every seven years. Has it not occurred to you that I might not be terribly interested in intercourse?"

Clearly that had not occurred to him. "You do not like it?"

"I didn't say that. Are you interested in having sex with me?"

"You are the most promising candidate."

"Not what I asked. Do you _want_ to have sex with _me_?"

He looked at the floor and stammered a bit.

"Spock, if you can't bring yourself to _say_ it, why on Earth should I _do_ it?" She moved to the door and pressed the button to open it.

Just as she was about to step out of the room, he seized her upper arm and pulled her back; she squeaked in surprise. He pressed the button to close the door again.

Once she had regained her balance, she looked up at him. She was nearly his height so she could meet his gaze with little difficulty.

"I _want_ to have sex… with _you_," he said.

It was something. It wasn't a declaration of love or friendship, or even of interest. And while she had sensed some sort of attraction from him ever since their first meeting, this wasn't exactly what she had wanted. She felt a little like Scarlett O'Hara discovering that Ashley wasn't in love with her after all; that he just wanted her the way Rhett wanted that Watling woman.

"Well. That's… okay." She congratulated herself on keeping her voice steady. "When do you mean for this to take place?"

He gave her a blank look, and she shrugged. "It's your party, Mr. Spock. Or did you assume I'd just jump on you and take care of your little problem here and now?"

"You are angry," he said.

"If you want me to do this favor for you—and it _is_ a favor, Spock—you're going to have to make some effort."

"I cannot make any claim to experience here, Miss Chapel."

"You can start with calling me by my given name. Also, for future reference, it's considered a little insulting to imply that the female has more experience than you do."

"If you have any experience at all, you have—"

"I know, it isn't logical, but that's how it is."

He thought about that for a moment. "It is not my intent to insult you, Mi—_Christine_. I have a high regard for you."

"But will you respect me in the morning?" she asked in an arch tone.

His brow knit. "I fail to see how intercourse will affect that."

She laughed, but it was a sad sound. She moved in close, holding her hand in front of his face, telegraphing her movements so he wouldn't flinch when she touched his cheek. He was immaculately shaved, as always. "Here is how to arrange it: make plans more than twenty-four hours in advance. Secure a location where there will be no disturbances, and try to make it comfortable and pleasing for your partner."

"What would you consider comfortable and pleasing?"

"See, it's more important that you interpret what _you_ think your partner would find comfortable and pleasing, instead of following a list."

He nodded, his agile mind already working on this new information. "These preparations would indicate regard for one's partner and interest in satisfying that partner."

"Yes, they would," she said. "So, I will leave this in your capable hands, Commander."

He placed those capable hands under her jaw, tilting her face up, and gave her a meltingly soft, slow kiss, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs. They had kissed before, under duress, and it hadn't been like this at all. She was acutely aware of the warmth of his skin, of the taste of his mouth, of the scent of his breath, and she sighed.

"Did you find _that_ pleasing?" he asked, and she nodded dumbly. "Fascinating," he said, and inclined his head in farewell.

The door closed behind him, leaving her alone in intensive care.

----------

He sent her a message a few hours later:

_Christine: would you be willing to join me in my quarters tomorrow at 1900? Spock_

She responded in the affirmative, sending the message before she could change her mind.

----------

Christine had plenty of time to prepare after she left duty on Friday at 1700. She exfoliated and depilated herself thoroughly, leaving her skin soft and pink, and she applied a rich, fragrant lotion. She styled her hair simply, with a few crucial pins that, once removed, would let her hair tumble over her shoulders in a soft mass.

She knew she was setting herself up for future heartache. "Whatever happens, Chris, you're _choosing_ this," she said to her reflection. "Remember that." She applied a light dusting of cosmetics, just enough to accentuate her features, a sweep of mascara along curled eyelashes, and an emollient lip balm with a hint of color, so she wouldn't leave makeup in her wake. Blusher wasn't necessary; she'd been pink-faced for two days now.

She dressed in a soft, silky v-neck tunic and trousers in a rich, dark violet, with velvety black ballet slippers. She looked as though she was going to spend a pleasant evening on the rec deck, perhaps listening to some music. "Not too late to back out, kid," she muttered to the mirror.

"What do you have planned for tonight?" McCoy had asked her as their shift finished.

"Why, you asking me out?" she'd deadpanned, and he'd laughed as she knew he would.

"You know where all the bodies are buried, Chris; what'd be the point?"

She wondered now what he would have said if she had replied, "Nothing much, just deflowering a Vulcan, how 'bout you?"

Deflowering. Now there was a ridiculously archaic concept; she wondered what Spock would think of it.

----------

She went with as much nonchalance as she could muster to Spock's cabin; her chronometer read 1900, and she pressed the door chime.

He met her at the door. "Nurse Chapel. Please come in." There was a pucker between his eyebrows that she hadn't seen before. He was moving quickly, and for a Vulcan that was saying something. She entered, and the door closed behind her; he locked it.

She could feel the humidity in the room from his recent shower, could smell herbal-scented soap. His cabin was darkened; the hangings that softened the corners and edges of the space were lit by a myriad of candles, and incense burned slowly, perfuming the room. He had set the temperature so it was comfortably warm by human standards.

There were several large pillows in sumptuous fabrics spread on the floor for seating, and after stepping out of her slippers she sank (mostly) gracefully onto one of them.

Spock was wearing a dark robe, and he was also barefoot. She'd never seen his bare feet before, and it suddenly felt more intimate than any of their previous interactions.

"Are you comfortable?" he asked, kneeling on the pillow beside her.

"I am, thank you."

"And are you pleased?"

"So far yes, but that remains to be seen."

He nodded. "I thought a light meal would be appropriate, if you have not yet dined."

"I haven't," she said. Goodness, but this was stilted.

He indicated a tray of fruit on a low table nearby. There were slices of a strange melon-type fruit of a deep, persimmon orange, Terran strawberries, grown hydroponically huge on board the ship, wedges of citrus fruit. "You might enjoy the melon," he said, lifting a slice, intending apparently to hand it to her, but she took it in her mouth, nipping lightly at his fingers. He blinked at the familiarity.

She chewed, enjoying the juicy, rich taste and slick texture of the fruit. "That's nice," she said. "I haven't had that before. Does it come from Vulcan?"

"No. We acquired them at Starbase 27 during our last re-supply."

"You chose well," she said, reaching for a strawberry and taking a bite. "Oh, this is delicious. You have to taste it." Christine held the strawberry to his lips, and he took a bite. A dribble of juice ran down his chin, and she leaned forward, kissing the juice from his skin. He pulled her close and kissed her.

"You're too good at that to be a virgin," Christine said a little breathlessly when he released her. She finished the strawberry, placing the stem on the tray.

"I never said I had not kissed anyone before."

"That's true," she said. "You've even kissed me before. But not like that."

He gave her a shuttered look. "I was not properly motivated before."

"Well, I'm glad that you feel motivated," she said, suddenly desperate to put some space between them, to remind herself that this was little more than a business arrangement. "You would probably like to know that my contraception is up to date, and neither of us has any communicable diseases. So, what next?"

He hesitated.

"Spock, as long as it's not painful, illegal or against my ethics I'm prepared to do it, but you're going to have to say it."

He made an impatient sort of noise in his throat. "Disrobe."

She swallowed and pulled her tunic over her head. One of the pins flew from her hair and bounced, with a small pinging sound, against the side table. She looked at him, but his expression hadn't changed; he was looking at her with his eyebrows raised, looking as imperious as only a Vulcan could.

Christine stood and pulled down her pants, leaving her in nothing but her black lacy bra and panties, her tousled hairstyle falling about her shoulders. She reached up and removed the last two pins, tossing them on top of her discarded clothes.

"Turn around," he said in a low voice, and she shivered. "Are you cold?"

"No." She turned, looking back at him over her shoulder.

"Eyes front, Lieutenant." She complied.

He moved so silently that she didn't know he was standing behind her until she felt the brush of his robes against the back of her calves. He traced the wing of her shoulder blade with a tentative finger, skimming down her spine to the dimples above her ass.

"You are beautiful, Christine," he said, his lips just grazing the shell of her ear. He tugged at the band of her bra, opening the eyelets, and the cups at the front of the garment went slack; he pulled the straps from her arms and tossed the bra to the side. His large, warm hands cupped her breasts.

She leaned against him, sighing, as he buried his face in her hair. His erection pressed against her ass, and she wriggled, increasing the contact.

One of his hands slid down across her belly, fingers curling to cover her sex. His touch over her panties made her jump and press back against him.

"As a result of my studies I am aware that a human female responds to arousal with increased vaginal secretions," he said; his breath tickled her ear a little. "When I remove your underwear, will you be wet?"

"Y-yes," she said, choking a little.

"I will test that for myself." He pulled down her panties and she stepped out of them, kicking the scrap of lace to the side of the room. His fingers returned to her labia, pressing against her humid flesh. His breath came hot and fast against her neck and he leaned against her briefly, as though his legs had given out on him for a moment. "Lie down."

"The bed, or—"

"The floor."

She reclined on one of the silky pillows as he untied his robe, revealing his body, and, not constrained by the need to maintain a professional distance, she watched him eagerly. His body was long and lean, peppered with dark hair on his forearms and legs, with a thicker, darker covering of hair on his chest. His erect sex stood out from his body, bobbing heavily, weighty and green with blood.

He knelt beside her on the floor, and she opened her thighs to him, welcoming him as he covered her. He braced himself with his forearms on either side of her head, and pushed his hips forward.

She winced as his penis dragged and pulled through her pubic hair, skidding into the joint of her thigh; he thrust again, too lost in sensation to stop.

"Here, let me," she said, taking him in hand and guiding him inside.

He inhaled convulsively, sucking in air like a winded thoroughbred. He shifted forward on his arms, inadvertently anchoring her hair to the pillow.

"Ow, Spock, you're on my hair." He didn't seem to hear her. "You're on my hair, youreonmyhair, youreonmyhair," she said through gritted teeth.

He started and moved his forearm. "My apologies," he said, and thrust once, twice, three times. She wasn't terribly surprised when she felt his penis pulse inside her; a gush of hot fluid followed. He gasped, threw his head back, and then he collapsed with his head in the crook of her shoulder, his hips still moving convulsively.

Christine stroked his back as his breathing slowed. A fully-human man would have a sheen of sweat on his skin, but Spock's back was completely dry.

"That was…" Spock began, and swallowed. "That was extraordinary." He made a string of kisses from her ear to her throat. "Thank you."

He raised his hips, pulling his now-flaccid member free. Christine clamped her hands on his hips. "You're not going anywhere, mister."

"But—" he began.

"We've got the first time over with. Now we work on technique. You may have noticed that since it was over so quickly I didn't climax."

His expression was blank.

She shrugged. "Well, longevity and awareness will come with experience. But it's considered very rude to assume that the sex is over after you've had _your_ orgasm. You should make at least a token effort to help your partner achieve orgasm also."

"I see," he said. "How do I—"

"Touch me," she said. "Start with my breasts."

He shifted his weight to his side and reached out a tentative hand to her breast, covering her with his warm palm. And didn't move.

_Right_.

"Spock… do you masturbate?"

"That is a very personal question, Christine," he said in a choked voice.

"Given that we're about as 'personal' as two people can be right now, I think I have that right. So, do you?"

He flushed. "On occasion."

"And where do you touch yourself?"

He gave her a put upon look. "Is that not axiomatic?"

"So you touch your penis. Do you touch your nipples?"

He shook his head tightly.

"Let me show you what you're missing," she said, and bent her head to his chest. She took one of his flat, brown nipples between her teeth and licked the tip.

Spock nearly leapt out of his skin, and she chuckled.

"That is not logical…" he said, gasping.

"Like hell it's not," Christine said. "You've got nerve endings there, and so have I. They're there for a function, and it's not mammary." Pursing her lips she blew cold air over his nipple, and he squirmed. "It's fun." She widened her mouth and blew hot breath over him. "Come on, Spock. Get that brilliant mind of yours working on this. It's pleasure, pure and simple."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "It is neither pure nor simple, Christine." He paused. "My roommate at the Academy was very sexually active. From what I could tell, all he had to do to arouse his partner was penetrate her; she would begin moaning, and within a short time they had both achieved orgasm, and loudly."

"'A short time'?"

He gave her a wry look. "It was not short enough for my comfort, but I believe their coupling took on average about ninety seconds."

She sat up. "Well… it's _possible_ that a female could achieve orgasm with so little stimulation, but have you considered the possibility that she could have faked it?"

"Why would she do that?"

"Perhaps she was putting on a show for him, to flatter him. Perhaps she was bored and wanted it to be over. Perhaps she was putting on a show for _you_, or they both were."

"A show for me?"

Christine bit her lips together. "Some people find it… arousing to have sex in front of others."

"So it was intentional?"

"I don't know your roommate, but it's possible." She smoothed his hair a little. "Sounds like he was a jerk. Did you have any sort of a system, so you would know to stay away from the room while he had a, uh, guest?"

"I rarely left my room after class," Spock said. "I had… difficulty with the social aspects of living among humans at that time."

Her heart squeezed with tenderness, and she put her hand on his cheek, leaning in to give him a soft, sweet kiss.

He cleared his throat, and set his jaw. "Thank you, Christine." He took her by the shoulders and gently but inexorably pushed her down to the pillows. "I believe I understand what you have been trying to communicate to me."

Spock touched the tip of his tongue to her nipple and she sighed. Emboldened, he suckled, and she clutched his head to her breast. "Oh, just like that," she murmured. He covered her other breast with his hand, teasing that nipple to full attention, while he worked on the first with his lips and tongue and teeth.

Her hips worked against him, blindly seeking pressure, friction. "What," he began, lifting his head, "what should I do next?" His mouth was soft and swollen.

She took his hand and pressed it against her sex. "Touch me."

"Touch you where, exactly?" he asked.

"Not directly on the clitoris," she said. "It's too much stimulation, at least at first."

His touch was tentative, and she moved her hips to get him in the right place. After a few moments, he stopped, and she whimpered. "Christine… may I look at you?"

She opened her eyes. "Look at me?"

"I have seen medical illustrations, but I do not… I am not familiar with your anatomy, and I am afraid I might injure you." He pressed his lips together tightly.

"Oh. Of course you may." She scooted up to a seated position, reclining into one of the pillows propped against the wall. She brought her knees up and spread them, giving him an unobstructed view. "What are you going to do with that candle?" she asked in sudden alarm.

"Illumination… unless you object?"

She relaxed. "Oh, good; I don't think either of us is quite ready for wax play."

"_Wax_ play?" His eyebrows nearly met his hairline.

"We'll put that under the heading of advanced techniques, Spock."

He made a sound that, in any other man, she would have interpreted as a grumble, before returning his attention to her. "Show me how to pleasure you."

She spread her labia with two fingers, and with her other hand began to caress the folds immediately to the side of her clitoris. She dipped her fingers into the moisture at her vaginal opening and spread it upwards. He watched with rapt attention as she bucked her hips against her hand. "May I do that?" he asked, and she was only to happy to let him.

Like the brilliant student he was, he learned her rhythm and the pressure she needed. Between two sets of hands and Vulcan persistence, within a few minutes Christine was sweating and panting, thrashing on the pillows, and crying out as she reached completion.

He watched her, fascinated, as she came. As the spasms subsided he stroked her hair, soothing her.

"You're a quick study, Spock," she said in a husky voice.

"My instructors have told me this," he said. He leaned forward, kissing her.

"You're also ready for another go," she said, palming his erection.

"Only if…" he began, and stopped, hissing as she stroked him.

"Too much?" she asked, giving him big, innocent doe eyes.

"Not at all," he said.

"Oh, good," she said. "Lie down." She moved out of the way, and he assumed the supine position on the pillows with a swiftness she could only attribute to eagerness. She straddled him, mounted him and began moving. "If you feel as though you're going too quickly, just—ah!—slow down and try to meditate."

He growled at her and worked his hand between them, stroking her clitoris. She stopped directing him at that point, and just rode until she came again, aided by the flickering movements of his thumb; he followed shortly thereafter.

They collapsed together in a satiated heap.

----------

Afterward, curled together in his altogether-too-small bed they dozed off and on in between infrequent bursts of conversation.

"I think you get the 'Most Improved' award this term," she said, yawning.

"Do you ever pretend to achieve orgasm?" he asked at one point.

"No; I don't think it's fair. A man can't exactly fake it." She nudged him with her hip. "Besides, you'd know, wouldn't you? Aren't you a touch telepath?"

His eyebrows went up as if he had forgotten that. "I have been overwhelmed by the sensations," he said. "Perhaps I will be able to tell the next time."

She cracked an eye open. "_Next_ time?"

She could hear the smile in his voice as he said, "Go to sleep, Christine."


	2. Chapter 2

She hadn't expected more than the one night with Spock, and so far he had behaved exactly according to expectations.

She wasn't thrilled with it. "But you knew the job was dangerous when you took it," she said to herself, and she wasn't talking about the 'fleet.

One night had been sufficient, then, to tell him all he needed to know about human sexuality. It hadn't even begun to scratch the surface of what she wanted to know about Vulcan sexuality.

She had, however, scratched the Vulcan's surface, so at least she had _that_ going for her. Which was nice.

A few weeks later she was sitting in the Rec Deck with a motley assortment of shipmates. It had been a long couple of weeks, with several Red Alert drills at ungodly hours, in addition to a stomach virus tearing through Engineering before McCoy and Spock were able to isolate and eliminate it.

Christine sketched and nursed a glass filled with sparkling wine; admittedly she was far better at drinking the wine than at sketching, but she enjoyed both. Flipping through her collection of rough drawings gave her a more vivid sense of the memories than any holos ever would. She could look at a line and remember what she had thought about as she made it.

Tonight her oblivious subject was one of the lieutenants from Stellar Cartography as he played his newly-acquired Andorian guitar. He was lost in his new instrument, so entranced by the unique sounds he could coax from it that he didn't notice Christine's scrutiny. She roughed-in the angle of his head and the stretch of his arm to the neck of the guitar. The guitar's shape was what had drawn her to sketch the lieutenant. It was made of Andorian ironwood, and looked like a cross-section of a nautilus, with strings attaching at odd points and crossing or weaving through each other. She thought she would have the most difficulty representing the pearlescent finish of the wood; the sheen was beautiful.

"That is a good likeness of Lt. Pham," a deep voice said from over her shoulder.

She looked, registered the presence of Spock, and returned her gaze to her sketchbook. "Thank you."

Spock remained standing behind her; she could feel his gaze on her shoulders, on her hands, on her hair. She made a weak, wavering line with her pencil, and then stopped, sighing. "Do you need something, Commander Spock?"

He blinked, startled. "No, Miss Chapel."

"Would you stand somewhere else, then, please?" She looked up at him. "It makes me uncomfortable."

She'd surprised him; she could see it in the tilt of his head. "Of course," he said.

He walked away, and she returned her attention to her sketch. When she looked back up at the lieutenant, she saw him in conversation with Spock.

"That's great, Commander," Pham said, grinning with eagerness. "Thanks." He left the Rec Deck, taking his interesting guitar with him.

Spock sat in Pham's abandoned chair, looking completely at ease.

Christine sighed again, tucking her pencil into the sketchbook and tying the book closed with a thin leather thong. She picked up her glass and joined Spock at his table. He had the nerve to look surprised when she sat down.

"Commander," she said, taking a sip of her wine.

"Lieutenant."

"Perhaps I should have asked you if there was something you _wanted_."

He gave her a level look. "I did not know you were an artist."

"There's a lot of things you don't know about me. And I'm not an artist, per se; I just like to draw."

"You like to draw _men_," he clarified.

She goggled at him for a moment and then burst into laughter. "You have _got_ to be kidding!" She clapped a hand over her mouth as heads swiveled towards them from all over the Rec Deck.

Spock just sat there, impassive as ever.

"You actually convinced that poor guy to leave just because I was drawing his guitar."

"I believe the lieutenant left because I informed him that his survey of the Aquilae V system was complete; he wanted to check the data."

"He was _awfully_ happy about it," she said; sarcasm dripped from her voice.

"I understand he is searching for a suitable planet for a shore leave excursion. Hence his enthusiasm."

"So it's merely a coincidence that I was looking at him and then you sent him on an errand."

He cocked his head, his eyebrow going up. "Astoundingly enough, yes."

"I see. So, since you disapprove of my previous subject, what would _you_ like me to draw?" she asked.

"I would not presume—" he began, but she cut him off.

"Like hell you wouldn't." She tipped the last swallow of her wine down her throat and stood up. "Well… perhaps I could be convinced to experiment with studies of the male nude. If only I had a model." She tapped her forefinger against her lips thoughtfully, and then, tucking her sketchbook under her arm, headed toward the turbolift with just the hint of a swagger to her hips.

Ball in his court. Would he return it?

The turbolift doors hissed closed behind her, and she felt her shoulders slump a little in disappointment. Really, was it too much to ask for him to follow her inside, stop the turbolift and press her against the wall? Janice, Nyota, Lisa, they'd all had turbolift trysts (separately, or so she presumed); Nyota had had _two_. When the door opened on her deck she went to her quarters.

Christine had just washed her face and brushed her teeth when her door alert chirped. Despite the fact that she was wearing her nightgown she pressed open the door and found Spock standing there, looking unsettled.

"You did not respond to my messages," he said. "Is twenty-four hours' notice required on this occasion?"

Even though he was taller and much stronger than she was, she grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him into her quarters; since he was off balance it was quite easy. She pushed him against the wall and kissed him, discovering anew the heat and taste of his mouth. His hands slid down, cupping her ass and pulling her closer. They turned together and then she was pressed against the wall.

"Is that all I have to do to interest you? Make you jealous?" She was breathing hard, lifting her bare leg to wrap around his hips.

"I was not jealous," he said, his voice choked. "It is unseemly for a female to study a male."

"I'll show you unseemly," Christine said, laughing and dropping to her knees. She unfastened his trousers and dragged them down, followed by his 'fleet-issue underwear. He looked down at her with morbid fascination, his mouth open and wet.

She looked back up at him from under her eyelashes, a wealth of filthy promise in her expression. She licked her lips and exhaled hot breath on his trembling cock before taking him into her mouth.

He jumped and cried out as though mortally wounded; she had never heard him make such a sound, not even in the throes of illness or injury. She sucked him, hollowing her cheeks and making obscene smacking and slurping noises, gripping his taut buttocks. The angle of his cock changed, and she realized that he was sliding down the wall, his legs limp; she followed him.

She closed her eyes and concentrated, breathing him in, familiarizing herself with his unique, earthy scent. His crisp pubic hair brushed her nose, and the surface of his skin was silky on her tongue, covering solid, steely flesh. His breath came fast, rasping in his throat as she took him deeper.

She didn't know where his hands were, and she reached forward blindly, finding one of his hands and planting it on her head. His other hand joined it, and he stroked her hair unconsciously, his fingers tangling in the strands. She sighed around her mouthful, and continued, stroking his balls and his perineum as she sucked him.

So far, apart from his initial cry, he hadn't made a sound other than his panting breath. She would have expected love words, or Vulcan obscenities, or something. _Were_ there Vulcan obscenities? She'd have to ask Nyota…

The tension in the muscles of his thighs increased suddenly, and she braced herself for his climax. Semen shot into her throat, and she gagged, pulling away from him. The taste wasn't the objectionable part; it was the quantity and the way it made her tongue feel starchy-dry, as though she had eaten an under-ripe banana. She spat helplessly into her hand before stumbling to the sink.

"I apologize," he said, panting.

She looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "Why?"

"I shouldn't have—" he began, and stopped, looking uncomfortable. He pulled up his underwear and trousers.

"Of course you should have; I wanted you to." She washed her hands.

"Which is why you nearly vomited."

"Gag reflex. It happens." She coughed. "Physiological response." She drew herself a cup of water and gulped it down before refilling the cup and offering it to him. He accepted and took a few sips. "Besides, you must know what I was feeling… touch telepathy and all that."

He ducked his head a little, flushing a pale green that, god help her, she found fascinating. "It is an odd thing to accept; I never would have expected that a lover might do something so… intimate. Willingly."

"Perhaps you should expect more."

He nodded. "Perhaps I should."

She sat on the floor across from him, cross-legged. "We always seem to end up on the floor, don't we?" she asked, not really expecting an answer.

"Two occurrences do not constitute a pattern, Christine," he said. "Three occurrences, however…" His voice trailed off, and he looked at her with veiled amusement.

"One more time, then," she said, smiling and hugging her knees. "Can you tell me something?"

"I can try."

"What would Vulcan lovers say to each other during sex?"

"They would not speak, I know that much."

"How do they communicate?"

"The marital bond facilitates telepathic communication."

"So what would they _say_? Is there such a thing as Vulcan dirty talk?"

He cleared his throat. "There are erotic texts from Vulcan's ancient past, but I was never permitted to read them."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "That doesn't mean you _didn't_ read them."

He looked at her sharply. "No, it doesn't."

"So…?"

His body language relaxed somewhat; he leaned almost casually on one arm. "There was a paragraph about the juice rising in a succulent plant and I remember thinking that the eroticism had been wildly overstated."

She laughed, low and throaty.

"The narrative went on to describe how sucking the stalk of the plant could slake a female's thirst during her time in the desert. That part was too outrageous to be believed, and I abandoned erotica for my studies, like a well-bred young Vulcan."

"And here that part turns out to be true. How disconcerting!" She grinned at him.

"Is your thirst slaked?" He looked closely at her.

"It's getting there," she said, and laughed a little, nervously.

His expression looked briefly as though he was scowling, but the effect was of concentration. "Mine is not."

She met his gaze and gulped before regrouping her expression into a seductive smile. "How may I help?"

"I remember a part—"

"—In the aforementioned erotica?" she asked, and he nodded even as his mouth thinned with mild annoyance at her interruption; she grinned, unrepentant.

"—a _part_ about a life-sustaining nectar that a male would find on the petals of a flowering plant, but only after he had cared for the plant, protected it, fertilized it, cherished it. It was a bit like reading one of my mother's horticulture texts, and I didn't understand the allegory until… much later." His voice was low and deep and seemed to rumble through her very bones.

"I have no intention of being _fertilized_," she said, meaning it. "But the rest sounds…" She cleared her throat. "…great to me."


	3. Chapter 3

Cherry on Top 3/4

By snarkypants

"What exactly is your problem?" Christine asked him; she might have been addressing the door for all the reaction she got. Spock continued working at his console as if she hadn't spoken. She wedged a hip in between him and the monitor, perching on the desktop, and he jumped back as if burned.

"I have no discernible problem, Nurse."

"I beg to differ, Commander. I'm accustomed to you avoiding me in public, but now you practically snarl at me before you disappear."

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "I am not responsible for your habit of reading hyperemotional subtext into every trivial interaction."

"No, of course not. So everything's A-OK, then, is it? You're perfectly fine?"

"Your need to elicit an emotional response from me is becoming pathological, Nurse."

"Kind of like your need to pretend you don't _have_ an emotional response."

"I am Vulcan; we do not—"

"_Half_-Vulcan," she said, putting all the scorn she could muster into the clarification. "And you do plenty of things that full Vulcans don't do." _Like me, for starters_, she thought, putting her hands on her hips and sticking her chest out.

Given the way he averted his gaze, he had interpreted her use of the verb "to do" carnally.

Good. Fifteen-love, Chapel.

"I've made a lot of allowances for cultural differences, Spock, perhaps too many. You haven't spoken to me in days; how am I supposed to know you're still interested?"

He was looking anywhere but at her. "What gives you the impression that I _am_ still interested?"

She snorted. "Other than you moping around like a betrayed husband? Not much."

That brought him up short and he clamped his mouth shut. "You are not the woman I thought you were," he said a moment later, his voice as coldly Vulcan as she had ever heard it.

"Which woman is that? The one who fucks you whenever you ask and doesn't complain when you ignore her? No, I suppose I'm _not_ her; how very disappointing for you."

"You were dancing with Lieutenant Ramos," he gritted out through his teeth.

"He asked me to one stupid party; as Dr. McCoy would say, 'you gotta dance with them what brung you.' Not that it's any of your business," she added, an obvious afterthought.

"Which of us did you intend to deceive?"

"What do you mean, 'deceive'?" Her voice went up, ending on a particularly shrill note.

"Does he know about our… liaison?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I dunno, I thought I might save some surprises for the wedding night," she said in a dry voice.

He smoothed his uniform jersey. "In other words you meant to deceive both of us." He shouldered past her.

She sighed. "What would you like me to tell him? 'Oh, hey, Ted, by the way, Spock's been putting the stones to me every chance he gets'."

He turned, blinking at her. "'Stones'?"

"Testicles."

He made a moue of distaste. "Your coarseness is unnecessary."

"Yes, I know; I'm a coarse, grasping human slut. All we do is fart, fuck and fight."

He winced and she bared her teeth at him in an unpleasant caricature of a smile before heading to the door.

He was on her in an instant, holding her by her upper arms, squeezing.

"You're hurting me," she said in a flat voice.

His hands gripped tighter. "A Vulcan male is fully capable of killing a rival, and under certain circumstances, _encouraged_ to do so," he said in a dangerously low voice, right next to her ear.

"Let go." She struggled against him, becoming frantic as her pulse began to beat in her fingertips.

"I will not be supplanted. Is this sufficient emotional response for you?"

His hands opened, releasing her. She stepped back, rubbing the blood back into her arms. They stood there, glaring at each other; well, she glared. He was stone-faced.

Her eyes began to burn with unshed tears; because she didn't trust her voice she opted for action instead. She swung her arm in a wide arc and slapped him hard.

He could have stopped her, she knew; he was quicker and stronger by far. Her palm left a hot, verdurous splotch on his cheek. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, and the mark slowly faded.

When he opened his eyes again, his expression was vaguely ashamed. "Christine… you have not expressed dissatisfaction with our arrangement in the past."

"That's because we don't _have_ an arrangement; we occasionally fuck."

"You use that word too frequently."

"What, 'arrangement'?" she asked, widening her eyes in feigned innocence.

He gave her a level look in lieu of a response.

She made a derisive sound. "You wouldn't dictate the terms of my speech or conduct even if we _did_ have an arrangement. Which, by the way, we don't."

"Did you fuck _him_?"

"Who? _Ted?_" Her expression was briefly incredulous before her features settled into an impassive hauteur that would have suited T'Pring far better. "That's none of your damned business."

The door hissed open as her words were ringing through the lab, and they both started guiltily. Captain Kirk entered the room with a wary expression, his gaze darting into the corners as if looking for an attacker. "Everything all right in here?"

"Yes, sir," Christine said. "Excuse me, Captain, Commander."

Kirk nodded. "Nurse." Christine left quickly.

"How can I help you, Captain?" Spock asked, somehow looking as perfectly composed as ever.

"I was, uh…" Jim grinned and shook his head. "I forgot for a second. What've you got on the geologic samples from our shore leave on Aquilae 12?"

"There was nothing unexpected," Spock said. "The readings match the sample studies to 96.8547 percent accuracy."

"_Only_ 96 percent?" Kirk's look was incredulous.

"The equipment was calibrated to the wrong core density, Captain. It will not happen again."

"That's good to know," Kirk said. "Particularly since the equipment in question was designed to achieve 95 percent accuracy." He chuckled good-naturedly.

"My final report will be complete by 1530 hours, Jim."

Kirk waved him off. "No hurry. HQ has been pressing me, hoping that our surveys might have found a new source of pergium." Spock gave him a quizzical look, and he continued. "It's because of the levels of olivine in the surface samples."

Spock's brow creased. "That is an illogical conclusion; any correlation between olivine and pergium is inconsistent at best."

Kirk shrugged. "That's HQ for you. Hope springs eternal; I'll break it to 'em gently."

Spock nodded and returned to his console.

Kirk cleared his throat. "And speaking of breaking it to 'em gently…"

Spock looked back up at him. "Jim?"

"What's with you and Nurse Chapel?"

Spock's face froze and the customary warmth in his eyes faded. "Why do you ask?"

"My well-calibrated senses picked up on some minuscule levels of tension when I entered the room." Spock didn't react to that bit of understatement at all, and Kirk chuckled again, albeit weakly. "Forget it, Spock. None of my business."

Spock nodded, returning his gaze to his console yet again.

"But if you need to talk about it…"

"Thank you, Jim. I know where to find you." This was said with the finality of a Vulcan who had reached his jocularity limit for the day.

"You do that," Kirk said, and left the lab.


	4. Chapter 4

Christine Chapel looked at her mournful face in the mirror. "'Whatever happens, Chris, you're choosing this'," she said, mocking herself in falsetto. She washed her hands and patted a few wayward strands of hair into place. She tried a bright smile for the benefit of her reflection, but the corners slipped back down, as if pulled by the artificial gravity field.

A man was coming to call. The wrong man, unfortunately.

Right on time, her door alert chirped. Ted Ramos stood at her threshold.

Only a woman who was sadly out of touch with reality would consider Ted Ramos the wrong man. He was dark and handsome; he wasn't particularly tall by Christine's yardstick, but many women would think otherwise. He was funny and nice and attentive, and…

And Christine was clearly an idiot.

"Hi, Ted; come on in," she said.

He looked a bit unsure at this. "Weren't we going to dinner?" He followed her inside.

"I'm going to have to cancel on you," she said.

His brow creased with concern. "Are you sick?"

She laughed shortly. "Not physically. But mentally?" She shrugged.

He gave her a wary look. "You're _really_ canceling on me, aren't you? Not just dinner."

She looked down at her hands. "Yeah. I'm sorry."

"Why?" he asked. Christine looked up at him, but he neither looked nor sounded angry. He seemed genuinely curious.

"Why am I sorry, or why am I canceling?" She made an impatient gesture with her hand. "I'm a little ashamed of myself, Ted. I guess I was… well, I _was_ using you to make someone jealous."

He gave her a crooked smile that made her stomach do a little flip-flop. "Did it work?"

"Yeah, but not in a good way."

"Ouch. That sounds unpleasant."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You're not upset with me?"

He shrugged. "I went out with a pretty girl who's never dated anyone else on this tub; you're _terra incognita_ hereabouts, Chris. My buddies think I'm a miracle worker."

"Oh," she said, feeling a bit hurt, absurdly enough. "Well, good."

"Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't be opposed to taking things to the next level, but…" He grinned, a slash of white bracketed by deep dimples. "I'm not looking for a great love or anything; I just like to have fun."

"You're a lot of fun to be with, Ted," Christine said.

"Just tell me—you're in love with this… I'm assuming it's a guy, right?" He didn't wait for her acknowledgement before moving on. "Does he feel the same way about you?" Her expression clouded, and he nodded. "So what can it hurt to keep having fun with me?"

"It's not about how he feels; it's about how I feel."

He sighed and shook his head. "God, you're so _serious_, Christine." He stepped in close, taking her face between his callused palms, and kissed her.

The man could kiss like a champion, just the right amounts of tongue and teeth and saliva, and he smelled like a master perfumer's interpretation of a sunlit grove of cedars. When he released her she took a deep, steadying breath, and he laughed.

"I am such an idiot," Christine said. "And you are a gentleman."

He went to the door and pressed the button to open it. "Nope. It just does me no good to beat my head against an immovable object. I really hope you can figure that out for yourself; makes life easier. I'll see you around." He smiled again, an easy, no-blood, no-foul smile.

"See you, Ted."

The door hissed shut.

* * *

Spock watched Christine as she walked through Sickbay. Her hair was pulled back in an uncharacteristically sloppy ponytail, as though she had dressed hastily. Her progress was slow and pained, but she was stubborn and remained on her feet.

McCoy also watched her, his expression clearly displeased, but whether this was due to her decreased efficiency or her temerity in reporting to duty after being ordered to quarters by McCoy himself, Spock didn't know.

McCoy beckoned her to the side of the room; at this distance human hearing wouldn't have picked up what he said to her, but Spock heard with little difficulty.

"Chapel, you're supposed to be on quarters; if you continue you're in direct violation of a lawful order."

"You going military on me, Doctor?" she asked, and tried to step around him.

He grabbed her by her shoulders and she winced; Spock took a startled breath, trying to sit, but the anti-gravity restraints on his Biobed kept him immobile; they'd been losing gravity control for days, due to a skirmish with the Klingons that had taken a sharp and unexpected turn for the worse.

"You're unfit for duty; we're tripping all over you." Regret crossed McCoy's face as Christine's face bloomed with hurt, angry color. "You did a fine job setting up the triage, but you need to return to quarters now that we've got things back under control."

She nodded even as she scowled, and slowly left Sickbay.

"Damn fool woman," McCoy muttered, watching her leave. "Broken back 36 hours ago, and she's trying to haul things around like a stevedore."

Spock cleared his throat. "Has Nurse Chapel re-injured herself, Doctor?"

McCoy blinked at him, as if only realizing Spock was there. "I don't think so. But she's got no business in here until I've cleared her." He stalked to the side of Spock's bed and glanced at the readout. "That's much better; I wish I could put all of my patients into a healing trance." He touched a series of buttons on the screen, and the restraints holding Spock released.

Spock sat up almost immediately, to McCoy's obvious chagrin. "Am _I_ restricted to quarters, Doctor?" he asked.

McCoy sighed. "Promise me, twelve hours of no strenuous activity."

"I cannot make such a promise." Spock pushed himself to his feet.

"Then, yes, you're restricted to quarters."

Spock looked down, checking that his uniform was in order. "I am needed on the bridge."

"The captain's done without you for a few hours; he can do without you for a few more."

As if on cue, Kirk stalked into Sickbay. "Status, Bones?" His eyes widened, seeing Spock standing beside the doctor. "Spock, you look much better than the last time I saw you."

"Six amps, Jim, and he's _fine_." Only McCoy could make a positive prognosis in such a dire tone.

Kirk grinned. "I should have an entire ship of Vulcans," he said, slapping McCoy on the back. McCoy made a quietly rude noise in response, and Spock raised an eyebrow at him. "Can you return to duty, Mr. Spock?" Kirk asked. "Mr. Scott needs your assistance in Engineering."

"Yes, Jim, as soon as the doctor releases me."

"Which I'll do as soon as he gives me some surety that he's not going to undo all my good work."

"_Your_ good work, Doctor?" Spock asked, allowing himself to be drawn into their habitual bickering. McCoy might well discharge him out of pique; it wouldn't be the first time.

Jim stepped into the breach, forestalling McCoy's expected explosion. "How are the rest of your patients, Bones?" He turned the doctor towards the other side of Sickbay, while making a "get the hell outta here" gesture behind his back with his thumb.

Spock was halfway down the corridor before he heard McCoy's outraged _"Hey!"_

* * *

It took several hours' work to sufficiently untangle the electrical snarl in Engineering that a fresh team could be set to accomplishing the repairs; at that point Kirk insisted that Spock stand down to rest, evidently directed by Dr. McCoy.

Spock had acquiesced, less from fatigue than from his innate sense of fair play; he _had_ left Sickbay before McCoy had excused him.

He paused at Christine's door on the quarterdeck. The captain had not specified that he must stand down to his _own_ quarters to rest. He pressed the chime at her door and waited for her response.

It took slightly longer than expected for her to answer; she appeared to be in greater pain than she had exhibited earlier. Her expression was pinched, her skin pale. She had changed from her uniform into a voluminous nightshirt, several sizes too large; he could only presume that the ungainly garment was easy to put on.

"Were you sleeping?" he asked.

She shook her head and stood aside to let him in.

"Have you taken anything for the pain?"

"It's nothing excruciating; I'm just sore." She motioned for him to take a seat; she seated herself rather gingerly at the foot of her bed. "I'm sorry; I'm not up to our accustomed forms of…ah, _intercourse_ at the moment."

"So no fighting, then."

"Or fucking." She gave him a malicious little smile. "But if there's broccoli for dinner I might be able to manage the third 'f'."

He blushed then; mild talk of sex was no longer sufficient to embarrass him, but he was still a bit squeamish about eliminatory functions. "Christine."

"Sorry; I'm being coarse, aren't I?"

"You know precisely what you are doing."

"Are you all right?" she asked, abruptly changing tack.

"I am."

"I was worried for you when they brought you in."

"You have seen me in a healing trance before."

"It's still disconcerting."

He acknowledged the truth of this with a tilt of his head. "I am not proud of our last meeting."

"Neither of us was at our best."

"No." He paused. "You were extremely provoking."

"Don't you mean provocative?" She pouted a little, but her heart wasn't in it.

"Not in this instance."

Christine sniffed. "And you, going all Alpha Vulcan."

"As I said, I am not proud of it."

"No."

Spock cleared his throat. "Dr. McCoy said that your back was injured when we lost gravity."

"Actually, I was just fine until the gravity came back _on_; I landed badly."

"The artificial gravity field is repaired now; that is what I was working on when I was electrocuted."

Christine smiled at him, for once without irony. "That's almost romantic."

"I found your injury… disagreeable."

"It disagreed with me, too."

"Have you eaten?" he asked. "Would you like me to bring you a meal?"

Her expression became faintly nauseated. "No, thank you; I haven't got my appetite back since the surgery."

"Do you require assistance with anything?"

She rolled her eyes. "Spock, you've been injured more recently than I have; I should be helping _you_."

"I recover far more quickly than you do. And as I recall you _did_ help me, in Sickbay."

"It's my job."

His expression was almost… disappointed, Christine thought.

"You know, actually, Spock, I do need help with something."

He turned to her with a look of polite interest. "Yes?"

"Would you brush my hair for me? It hurts to raise my arms for very long, and it's starting to look like a rats' nest."

He was on his feet and heading towards her tiny refresher. "Where is your hairbrush?"

"In the cabinet to the left of the mirror; red handle—"

"I have it."

He returned to the main room and sat behind her; she gave a small grunt as his weight shifted the mattress.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath as the brush bristles skimmed over the surface over her hair. Was there any sensation more luxurious than having one's hair slowly and delicately brushed?

"What am I trying to achieve?" he asked in a tentative voice.

"To get it more or less smooth," she said. "The tangles on the back of my head from where I've been laying down are the worst."

He continued to skim the brush over her hair. "This does not appear to be having the desired effect; the texture of your hair is very different."

"I have really thick hair. You may have to press a little to get the bristles to my scalp."

He applied more pressure, and tried to draw the brush through; he succeeded in nearly removing her head from her shoulders.

She gasped, and tears started in her eyes. Spock dropped the brush; it rapped painfully against her skull and remained tangled in her hair, in seeming defiance of gravity. She turned to look at him, and his look was so comically horrified that she began to giggle, even as tears ran down her face.

"I-I never intended—" he began; he was probably as pale as she was.

"It's OK," she said, between giggles. It wasn't totally OK; her back and neck and shoulders and scalp hurt like hell, and tears were dripping onto her chest, but it was still kind of sweet. She dried her face with her palms and took a deep breath. "See if you can get the brush out."

He looked as though he'd rather go back to Sickbay. "Do you have scissors?"

"Don't even think it, mister."

"It would be much more efficient." His voice was almost wistful.

She sighed. "Grab the bulk of the tangled hair close to the scalp; that'll make it possible for you to detangle my hair without ripping it out. It'll also keep my head largely immobile."

It took some doing, but he gradually worked the hairbrush free. He set it on her desk, regarding it much as one would a venomous serpent.

"I'll go to the barber tomorrow and get the rest of my hair sorted, Spock. Don't worry about it."

He stood. "I should leave before I injure you further."

Christine stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Spock. Please don't go." He looked down at her hand, and she quickly withdrew it. "Sorry."

He took her hand in his. "You would like more from me… some assurance of my continued interest in this relationship, occasionally in public, is that correct?"

"If there is to be a relationship, then yes."

He nodded, swallowed. "In exchange, I must have some assurance of exclusivity."

She paused, as if in thought, keeping her expression neutral. "I find your terms acceptable," she said, finally.

"Then… we have an arrangement."

"So it would seem," Christine said, matching Spock's gravity before spoiling the effect with a grin. "Will you stay? I think the best thing for my recovery would be to curl up in bed with someone warm."

"You would want that? It is a very small bed."

"Yes, I do want that, believe it or not," she said. "We can fit if we lay on our sides." She squeezed his hand.

"As long as you are aware that I am honor-bound to refrain from sexual intercourse with you until you have recovered."

"Thank you; I think your honor will be safe for at least tonight."

He nodded, mollified, and began to undress, and Christine, hiding a smile, climbed into bed. He followed her shortly thereafter, spooning himself behind her.

Christine sighed as the alien warmth of his body began to soothe the pain in her back. "You make an excellent hot water bottle," she said.

He responded with a soft rumble of acknowledgement.

"Spock?"

"Mmm?"

"I _was_ trying to make you jealous."

He settled his arm more comfortably around her waist. "I know."

She tried to elbow him in the belly, but he held her arm securely.

"Be still. You will hurt yourself."

"Hmph. I was _trying_ to hurt _you_."

"You were not." He kissed the nape of her neck.

She stroked his arm. "No. I wasn't."

* * *

A/N: No, her being nauseated at the thought of food isn't a sign of pregnancy; I thought it was a reasonable aftereffect of a traumatic injury and subsequent surgery, even in the 23rd century. I tend not to romanticize unplanned pregnancy because to me it's anything _but_ romantic, but _chacun à son goût_ and all that.


End file.
